Kingdom Fall
by DevinBourdain
Summary: A series of short stories about moments in the Winchester's lives. Starting with John's decision to put a gun in Dean's hands. (2) A young Sam and Dean wait patiently for John to return home for the holidays. Emotional hurt/comfort, young Dean and Sam. (3) It's not how John envisioned teaching Dean to drive, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
1. Table of Contents

Disclaimer: The Supernatural characters are not mine, just borrowed for this story.

Reviews are always welcome and appreciated

* * *

** This started out as a one shot, but I've decided to expand it to a series of one shots based on little moments through the Winchester's lives. I'm going to use chapter one as a table of contents to list the order and description of each story added.

 ** **Kingdom Fall**** (Chapter 2)

John picked the gun up from the table; it felt unnaturally heavy in his hand, the way he imagined it would feel in Dean's little hands tomorrow. It was almost enough to make him second guess his choice, but he had seen too much, learned more than he was capable of ignoring if he just walked away from hunting, from revenge. John ponders his decision to bring Dean into the life.

 **Have a Little Faith in Me** (Chapter 3)

It's Christmas Eve and John had promised to be home, but Dean's still waiting.

 **Perfect Landing, Son** (Chapter 4) **(New)**

It's not how John envisioned teaching Dean to drive, but desperate times call for desperate measures.


	2. Kingdom Fall

*** see chapter 1 for notes

* * *

 **Kingdom Fall**

Sam.

Little Sammy.

The name rolled off of John's alcohol heavy tongue, barely causing waves through the silence of the motel room.

Samuel Winchester: Youngest son of John and Mary and more recently just of John. Between hunting and the road, John's whole life had suddenly become about little Sam. Sam was the last precious gift Mary had given to the world, the last piece he had of his apple pie life before darkness had descended to strangle his family. Even the boy's name was a part of Mary, chosen after her father. The last thing Mary had done was try to protect Sammy from the evil that had invaded their loving home. While her death was tragic and inexcusable, the only thing that could offer it meaning was that she was trying to protect her youngest, a job now solely tasked to John. Finding the thing, killing the evil that had taken his wife would protect the tattered remains of his family. It would fill the constant ache in his heart as he watched his youngest fulfill each life milestone without his mother's watchful eye and validate his wife's sacrifice. Keeping Sam safe from everything that went bump in the night was the only way to offer some meaning to the senseless death.

And Dean.

Dean was destined to be the casualty of circumstance. John's other little piece of Mary was the child that made him a father, but Sam had made them a family. There was no question that he loved Dean, he'd go to hell and back for the kid, but hunting was a hard life and John had no delusions about what the outcome would be. Someone had to be there to protect Mary's sacrifice in his absence and Dean was the only person he could trust with the task. The only other soul that could ever be invested in Sam's survival the way he was. It meant Dean would suffer, grow up bloody and cold, but there wasn't anyone else. Evil had forced its way into their lives, their home and stole Mary; he was never going to let any of them be unprepared again. That was the real mission now: to keep the boys safe and if that meant killing every evil son of a bitch out there, then so be it. There was a special place in hell for him, John was sure, to sacrifice one child's happiness and replace it with the savage and warlike existence he was about to force on his oldest son, one who by all rights should be told that the monster under the bed was imaginary, not that it was real and if you didn't get it, it was going to get you.

The amber dim of the ratty motel room was claustrophobic and the bottle of whisky John had pulled out of his bag after his boys had gone to sleep did nothing to numb the feeling. They were hard to look at when they were sleeping and yet he couldn't take his eyes off the boys. There was an innocence that washed over Dean and Sam when they slept, one that by rights should have been theirs for years to come. It stayed with little Sammy when he was awake, diminished slightly by the revolving door of makeshift homes each week brought. However the moment Dean woke up and fruitlessly glanced around for his mother, the spark of sweet naive innocence washed away. John hated himself for that and even more for wanting to take advantage of that now. He had waivered back and forth on the idea, ideal crushing under the weight of reality. And as October gave way to November, his resolve hardened. Perhaps it was the booze rather than memory that put the notion in his head, but grief had locked it in.

It was easier to let his guard down around Sam; the small boy had no expectations, no comparisons from before. Just six months old, Sammy had little idea that anything had really changed within the family following Mary's death. Any indication that he missed her presence had faded as quickly as John's hope for the future. Dean was harder. Plagued by nightmares long after, knew exactly what the world had lost when his mother was stolen from them. It was hard to offer comfort and reassuring words in the dead of night to a terrified four year old when all John really wanted to do was curl up with a bottle and try to pretend that the bad things didn't exist. But the moment that had truly broke him and made putting that wedge between him and Dean easier (through no fault of Dean's) was in the aftermath of a nightmare, where John was trying his hardest to sooth the sobbing child, Dean had declared, "Mommy always sings to me after a nightmare. She could always make the bad thing disappear." It was nothing more than a child's observation, a hopeful plea for his father to make the monsters slip back in the shadows until dawn, but all John could hear was accusation. He was never going to be enough, hadn't been enough to protect them from this and now there was no one to sing lullabies and make soup and find missing socks.

John's hand tightened around his glass, hoping the cold whiskey inside could cool his anger. He'd made up his mind and putting it off wasn't going to keep his family safe. He glanced at the gun sitting on the table with distaste. He was going to put a weapon in the hands of a six year old boy and mold him into the perfect killing machine under the guise of keeping his brother safe. It was a decision that there would be no coming back from; destroy one to save the other, but at least they would both be alive. He could dress it up however he wanted, train Dean so he could protect both himself and Sammy because the bad things were coming, but really he was taking away his oldest son's innocence to countermand his failure as a father. Dean would be the final defence in keeping Sam safe.

He turned to look at the boys asleep in the beds of yet another cheap motel room, no place to call home or a familiar bed to lay their weary heads. It was the last night Dean would sleep easy before John would start making him the perfect soldier, just a pawn in a war that had spilled into their house two years ago. Even the alcohol couldn't change the sentiment from doing it to Dean to doing it for Dean and he hated himself a little more for it, but he was out of options. Hunting the monster that killed his wife was going to require a conviction John couldn't offer if he was always worrying about the boys. They needed to be able to defend themselves, Dean had to learn to protect Sam with everything in John's arsenal.

He picked the gun up from the table; it felt unnaturally heavy in his hand, the way he imagined it would feel in Dean's little hands tomorrow. It was almost enough to make him second guess his choice, to call the whole thing off and just let the boys try and salvage what they could of their childhood. But John had seen too much and learned more than he was capable of ignoring if he just walked away from hunting, from revenge. The darkness stole his wife, the only way he could be certain Mary's boys wouldn't suffer the same fate, was to kill the thing that killed her before it had a chance to snatch what was left of their family. In the end, he just wasn't strong enough to walk away, wasn't strong enough to leave the boys somewhere and walk away from them either.

He had no choice, he needed an ally in his war and selfishly he wanted Dean. It wasn't some noble quest to allow Dean to avenge his mother and hell, if he really wanted to protect the boys he could lock all of them up in a room with a cache of weapons and food and wait out all the evil in the world. No John couldn't stand doing nothing, he needed revenge, it wasn't anything more than pure selfishness that was going to put that gun in Dean's little hands tomorrow. And god he hoped Dean was horrible with it; let fate correct the heinous mistake he was about to make.

John downed the rest of his glass and proceeded to polish off the rest of the bottle as he stubbornly waited out the night before morning helped him steal something else from his oldest boy. He burned the picture of the sleeping boys in his head, framing it with lies about being able to go back to this when it was all over, when the last evil thing screeched its death song to the world and the Winchesters could know peace. Perhaps the biggest lie was that the corruption of Dean's soul would keep the boys safe. John had no illusions that willingly seeking out the evils of the world was dangerous, would probably cost him his life, but if Dean could be trained, then Sam and Dean would survive. He owed it to Mary to make sure the boys survived.

* * *

The knock at the door came right as scheduled, John stumbling to the door. He cracked the door, eyes straining against the early morning light to reveal a less than impressed looking teenager.

"Dale sent me here to look after Sam," she huffed, stepping into the motel room. "Dad says hi, by the way, sorry he couldn't be in town to personally give you a hand." The girl glanced around the room, looking unimpressed. "You're like old war buddies or something right?"

"Yeah," John replied, closing the door. There had been many 'helpful' people he'd met since crossing the threshold from normal to supernatural, but most he would trust to watch over his kids. In moments of need, he found calling in favors from the past worked best, even if in this case it was the teenage daughter of an old friend. It was daylight, in a relatively safe little town and it would only be for a couple of hours. The fact that Dale had boasted about Hayleigh being a national taekwondo champ had solidified his resolve to leave Sam in her care for the morning.

John motioned to the dilapidated couch as he moved over to the bed where his babies were sleeping. His hand shook as it hovered over Dean's still form. Time stood still as he searched for any reason not to do this that would satisfy his insatiable hunger for revenge; he came up empty.

"Time to get up buddy. Brush your teeth and get dressed, you and I have to go somewhere," encouraged John, gently rubbing Dean's back to rouse him out of bed.

"Alright Daddy," Dean mumbled struggling to extract himself from the covers. "Where are we going?"

A fake smile worked its way across John's face. With false cheer he said, "We're going to go for a hike out to the backcountry and I'm going to teach you something real important." The excited flare that lit up the boy's eyes made him sick to his stomach. Today Dean Winchester was going to stop being a happy-go-lucky little boy and become another tool in his father's quest to justify Mary's sacrifice. Though he wanted more for his boy, he knew the universe was stacked against them. The part that really killed him, was the fact that he knew Dean would take it all in stride and be whatever was asked of him if his father was doing the asking. Anything for Daddy. He only hoped that when they finally killed this thing, Dean would be able to forgive him.

Dean glanced over at Sam snoring softly on the pillow next to him. "What about Sammy?"

"I got him a sitter. It's just you and me today buddy." John hated the false positivity that painted his words, like they were going to take in a ballgame or learn how to ride a bike; real father son bonding. Lying to his son shouldn't come as easily as it did. He had to fight back the tears as he choked out, "I'm going to teach you something real important today."

"I'll do a real good job, you'll see. I promise." Dean beamed all the more, hurrying to finish the task set before him so he could start enjoying his day with his father.

"I bet you will son." John knew he would never be able to forgive himself.

* * *

 **Thank you to everyone who read this story.**

 **BIG thanks to Midnightmoonwarrior for the amazing beta job**


	3. Have a Little Faith in Me

****** See chapter 1 for notes**

 **Have a Little Faith in Me**

John leaned against the cold brick of the building, blinking back the darkness that had been floating at the edge of his vision since he got up close and personal with the jagged end of a piece of rebar. The spirit had been a particularly nasty one, far more than he had been prepared for. The fact that there were two separate and unrelated ghosts haunting the youth camp had complicated an already disastrous hunt.

The job should only have taken three days, that was four days ago and now it was Christmas Eve morning. He pressed his hand tighter against his side, staggering back to the Impala. Warm blood rolled between his fingers, slicking is hands. The world was beginning to swim as he fumbled for his keys; hand slipping across the door handle as he painted it with blood. The back door opened with a protesting creak and John flopped inside.

A sharp hiss escaped his lips as he blindly fumbled for the first aid kit. The darkness was over taking his vision; his limbs getting rubbery and heavy. Maybe if he just rested his eyes for a couple of seconds he could find the strength to patch up the hole in his gut and drive to get some help.

* * *

The tiny mall was all abuzz; tidal waves of people filling every possible space. Dean gripped Pastor Jim's hand tighter so as to not get sucked into the ebb and flow of the crowd. They finally reached their destination and Dean peered around the mass of people, getting his first glimpse of the massive snake formation of people in line to see Santa. It didn't seem like they were ever going to get to the front.

Sam let out a yawn, snuggling further in to Jim's shoulder. Dean peered up and gave his brother a reassuring smile. Dean had gone to see Santa once with mom and dad. The fire happened the next year and Christmas kind of skipped that winter. The following year they didn't have a tree but the nice lady that ran the restaurant below the apartment they were renting had them down for dinner. Last year they had a small affair with takeout and a string of lights in a motel they stopped at when the snow storm made it too hard to drive.

Pastor Jim had offered to take the boys to see Santa the day John had dropped them off but things had come up and Jim had been busy and next thing anyone knew it was Christmas Eve and Santa was going to be leaving the mall soon to go and start his present deliveries soon. Dean had agreed to the idea more so for Sammy's sake. It would be the first time the three year old would get to see Santa. Dean hadn't anticipated the large crowds that seemed to make Sam nervous, especially when dad wasn't around, or the late hour of their visit.

Dean tugged at Jim's coat sleeve. He waited until the man leaned over to say, "We don't have to see Santa this year. It's late and you have to set up for tomorrow."

Jim smiled, ruffling Dean's mop of hair. "We're almost to the front of the line and it'd be a shame to have driven all the way here and not gotten to see the big guy."

An eternity passed, each step closer a monumental triumphant. Sam had succumb to sleep somewhere between the jewellery store and the white picket fence marking the start of Santa's winter wonderland. By the time they got to the front of the line, Dean's feet were ready to admit defeat.

Gently he patted Sam's leg. "Hey Sammy, time to wake up. It's our turn to see Santa."

Sam's eyes fluttered open as he blearily glanced around. "Santa?" he mumbled shyly before burying his face back in the crock of Jim's neck.

"Yep, there he is," assured Dean cheerfully.

A young woman dressed in an elf costume greeted the boys with a big smile, taking their hands as Jim placed Sam down on his feet. Sam recoiled at the stranger, hiding behind Jim's leg.

"It's okay Sammy." Dean took the elf's hands, extending his own for Sam, offering to be the barrier between him and the stranger. Reluctantly Sam took his brother's hand, shuffling behind Dean as they came to stand before the man himself.

Dean had to help Sam crawl up on the red guy's lap, quickly taking Santa's other knee as a look of trepidation washed over his little brother. Santa let out a huge belly laugh, causing Sam to latch on to Dean.

"What's your name little boy?" asked Santa, turning his attention towards Sam.

Sam bit his lip, shaking his head furiously.

"His name's Sam," informed Dean. He didn't want Sam to blow his chance at Christmas because he was too tired and too shy. "He wants a pound puppy for Christmas this year."

"A pound puppy, is that so?" The man's voice was deep but warm. Sam cautiously nodded his head. "That's sounds like a good toy to me." He let Sam slip off his lap as the boy began to squirm, running back to Jim who was waiting off to the side with a sparkle in his eye.

Santa turned to the older boy still sitting on his knee. "And what's your name son?"

"Dean, sir."

"And what do you want Santa to bring you for Christmas?"

Dean chewed on his lip as he thought long and hard. The more reasonable request would be the GI Joe he had seen in the toy store window back in Phoenix but this was his one Christmas wish, might as well go for the thing he wanted most in the world, no matter how unlikely. Barely more than a whisper he said, "I want dad to be home for Christmas."

* * *

A slight tremble ran through John's body as an icy chill pierced the veil of darkness that had consumed him. Slowly he cracked his eyes, feeling the ache burning in his side. The weird splatter shape on the roof of the Impala swirled and wiggled as his muddled brain tried to figure out just what the hell the boys had managed to spill up there. _The boys_. The latest hunt finally snapped into place and he struggled to pull himself into a sitting position. Everything that could go wrong had, and here he was slowly bleeding to death, passed out in the car while his boys were waiting for his return.

The red stain on his shirt had grown since he stumbled to the vehicle, his attempt to bandage it, having failed. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he pried the lid of the first aid kit open with one hand; the other keeping painful pressure on the ragged hole punctured in his side. The rebar must have missed anything important or he wouldn't have been around to try and patch himself up now. It was slow going, but he managed to do a passable repair job; it would hold until he could get to Pastor Jim.

His legs were stiff and cold, being exposed to the fresh snow falling outside the Impala. He shook his feet, clearing the snow as he pulled himself out of the car. Streaks of pink and purple lined the horizon as daylight began to kiss night; he lost a whole afternoon. Christmas Eve was coming to a close and he still had a long drive. Keeping a hand on the car he shakily moved to the front door. It hurt sliding in behind the wheel but he wasn't going to be deterred.

The engine roared to life and John settled in for the ride. With one hand on the wheel he used the other to pop open a bottle of painkillers and dry swallowed a couple. The sleek black Impala cut through the softly falling snow as it made it's Christmas run back to the boys.

* * *

Sam ran around the empty cafeteria, arms spread wide making airplane noises as he buzzed around on his nonstop flight to burn off the built up energy from sitting in the car for hours. He ran circles around the table Dean had plopped his self down at, not letting his brother's glum attitude deter the wonders of the open space of the soup kitchen.

Dean kept his eyes on Sam as the three year old spun around with childish glee, to pretend he wasn't actually listening to his father and Pastor Jim talk about the latest job. It was a week before Christmas and John had caught wind of another job near Pastor Jim's. Dean knew John's work was important and he did like staying with Jim but the holidays were upon them. It was also the first year Sammy was actually getting excited about the prospect of a Christmas tree, stockings and Santa, and if Dean was being honest, he'd missed all those things the last couple of years.

"Oooff," grunted John as Sam slammed into his leg as he ran past. John grabbed the toddler by the waste hoisting him up. "Slow down there Sammy."

Sam giggled and squirmed trying to get free. "Down Daddy."

"Hey, listen to me." John held on tighter, getting his youngest to focus on him. "Dad's going to work for a couple of days and Pastor Jim's going to be looking after you boys." Sam nodded studiously. "I want you to mind your manners and not cause trouble." Satisfied he did his due diligence at trying to convince a three year old to behave, he set the bundle of energy back on the ground.

"They're always a joy to have around," assured Pastor Jim.

"Yeah, I'm sure." John had a pretty good idea Jim let his boys get away with murder whenever he left them in his care. When it wasn't Jim, he was certain it was the Sister teaching grade one and two at the church run school and the after school care program, that delighted in spoiling his boys rotten. Dean had that effect on women and Sam had these puppy dog eyes that should be registered as lethal weapons.

"Dean," he called, not surprised at all as his son begrudgingly trudged over. Dean had been mopey since they left Phoenix. They had been there for eight months, long enough for Dean to finish kindergarten and start the first grade; enough time for the boys to actually make friends and connections. Staying wasn't a safe option anymore, so John had loaded them up and headed towards the promise of a new job.

Dean stood in front of his father, looking longingly at the ground. "Yes, sir," he whispered, already knowing what his father planed to tell him.

"You're going to stay here with Pastor Jim while I go and take care of this job. I want you to be on your best behaviour and take care of Sammy, understood?"

"Yes, sir."

John ruffled Dean's hair, ignoring the complete lack of enthusiasm coming from his oldest. He knew this holiday was important. It was the first time both boys could really enjoy it; Sam old enough to understand and participate completely and the pain and loss of Mary finally dulled enough for Dean to take some joy in the holiday. There was a job, innocent lives at stake and John couldn't just ignore that. A spirit had been killing people at a local youth camp, one used by the community for year round events. It was closed for the next couple of days before opening for Christmas sleigh rides and snow sculpting competitions, giving John a chance to work without witnesses and potential victims before the feeding grounds repopulated themselves.

"Will you be back for Christmas?" asked Dean, his voice soft but hopeful.

John kneeled down in front of his son. "Job should only take three days, four tops. Plenty of time to get back for Christmas."

Dean looked a little more hopeful. "You promise?"

"I promise dude. There ain't anything that's going to stop me from getting back here before Santa."

* * *

Sam sat at the kitchen table, legs swinging wildly on the high stool. He took a giant lick of icing from the cookie he was trying to decorate, eyes lighting up in delight as the sugary taste melted over his tongue. The smears of wayward icing looked like war paint splattered across his face while sprinkles dotted every clear space on the table.

Pastor Jim sighed affectionately. It had seemed like such a simple idea at the start; get the boys to help decorate Christmas cookies to hand out at the soup kitchen tomorrow night. Looking at the mess compared to the amount of finished product , he seriously doubted Sam's future employment would ever include working in a bakery or a factory.

Jim looked through to the living room, where the oldest Winchester had been perched since returning from the mall. It was past Sam's bed time but boys were starting to get antsy about their father's lack of appearance combined with the excitement of the impending holiday making going to bed a near impossibility. It was Christmas, that was the excuse he would use for bring out cookies. "Dean, why don't you come help us? Sammy says they're really yummy."

Never taking his eyes away from the window he said, "Nah, that's alright." The snow had started falling when they left Santa, gentled at first but now the wind was picking up and the snowflakes were getting thicker and bigger. It was easily past his knees now and there was no sign of the storm passing. It would be a winter wonderland tomorrow, enough snow to go sledding, build a fort and launch and epic snowball fight with dad, if he ever made it home.

John had promised he would be back for Christmas and Dean shuddered at all the reasons that would force his father to break his word. That train of thought bled into what would he tell Sammy if dad wasn't coming back? What would happen to them? It wasn't like they had any family to speak of, just the three of them. What was Dean going to do if it became just the two of them? Dad had been training him to fight, to be prepared and skilled in fighting the bad thing that threatened to destroy their little family but he was nowhere near ready to do it on his own, to keep Sammy safe without dad there to protect them.

He glanced at the clock. Its big hands seemed to mock him as they proudly ticked another minute away. At this point Dean would settle for a phone call, promise be damned, if he could just know that dad was alright, that there would be someone to open the horrifically wrapped package under the tree at some point. "Where are you dad?" he whispered.

* * *

John slammed against the door as the Impala slid around the corner. The impact with his side sent a wave of pain shooting through him. It was enough to fight back the exhaustion that was trying to dull his senses, trying sway him to just lay down and give up. He needed to stay sharp, the snow was thick; the headlights of the car cutting only a couple of feet in front of him. He needed to keep going; he had to boys counting on him.

Another corner came, and John felt the tires spin and pull in the wrong direction. It was a double edged sword, to slow down was to risk getting stuck in the storm but the speed made it easier for the snow to throw him around. He continued pressing on into the night, his determination made of the same steel as the Impala.

John ate up the miles like the snow was eating up the road. He needed the victory tonight. After a hunt that had thrown every curve ball imaginable, escaping by the skin of his teeth he needed something to go smoothly. The latest hunt notwithstanding, John knew he had to make it home for Christmas. As parent, he was aware he'd been dropping the ball lately. Knowledge was power and he needed to learn everything he could from whoever would share hunting information with him if he was going to keep his family safe. Unfortunately that meant spending more time away from his kids. It also meant uprooting them more than any father should.

He knew Dean had wanted to finish out the school year at his last school and John would have loved nothing more than to make that happen. But the latest scare had him running as far and as fast as he could from Phoenix. He had told Dean there weren't any more jobs in the area, that there were some close to Blue Earth. He figured the chance to stay with Murphy for a couple of days would help soften the blow of leaving.

The truth was one of the witched in the coven John had been hunting was a substitute teacher at Dean's school and she had figured out the quickest way to get to John would be to get his son. John had managed to gank her before she laid a hand on Dean but someone getting so close to one of his boys was enough to send John running. Not to mention the fact that he technically murdered a member of staff in the supply closet; he wasn't going to be explaining that one to Child Protective Services.

Mary had always been the one to see to the little touches, the things that made a home and John still hadn't figured out how to do that. The holidays since her death had been hard; a fresh reminder of what he lost, what his kids were going to have to grow up without. She was the one that remembered to buy the birthday cakes, the one to wrap presents and buy Halloween costumes. John had discovered, like many aspects in his boys' lives, this was another one he was sorely lacking in. He needed to make it back on time, to prove to them and himself that he could be the parent they needed. He'd promised his boy he'd be home.

The Impala suddenly jerked hard to the left and John struggled to pull the wheel back. The back end of the car fishtailed before pulling the car into a spin. The world became a white hurricane as the car violently spun. The force of the spin pulled John hard against the door renewing the fire in his gut. His knuckles were white, gripping the wheel for all he was worth but the fight was futile.

The Impala hit the edge of the road, sliding into a snow drift. The car came to an abrupt halt, the impact smacking John's head against the steering wheel. He saw stars as his skull made contact, stunning him. Finally shaking off the haze, John peered out the window to see walls of white around him. The driver's side door was wedged in the snow, forcing him to crawl across the seat and out the passenger side door.

The frozen chill of then night stole his breath and made the warmth of the blood flowing from the cut on his forehead stand out in stark contrast. He looked at his situation with distain before limping to the trunk to retrieve his shovel. Painstakingly he fought with the snow, trying to free the back and front passenger tire from the snow. If he could clear enough to get tractions, he might be able to get the car out of this mess and back on the road.

He crawled back in and turned the engine. His foot pressed down on the gas. The tires spun furiously filling the silence of the night with the high pitched whirl. John grit his teeth, trying again. He switched the car into drive, trying to gain precious inches that might help the tires grab the road when he threw the car back in reverse. He tried again still noting.

Frustrated, John crawled back out of the car. It was hopeless, the Impala wasn't going anywhere without help and there was no one stupid enough to be out in a storm like that on a back country road on Christmas Eve.

He kicked at the pile of snow encased around the front side of his car letting out a frustrated growl. Hot tears stung his eyes as he slumped down leaning against the side of the vehicle. He just wanted to get back to his kids and even that couldn't go right. Of all the times for the universe to concentrate its unfairness on him, why did it have to be tonight? He hung his head as he thought of the disappointed looks on his sons' faces. John Winchester had let them down again.

* * *

Dean startled at Murphy's warm hand gripping his shoulder. The whole world had melted away except the view offered by the front room window. He tried to fight back the budding tears as he looked up at the Pastor.

Jim smiled warmly. "It's time to go to bed Dean."

Dean looked around the living room until he found Sam. The toddler was curled up asleep on the recliner, Santa watch still displayed on the TV. Going to bed felt like giving up, like letting the universe allow his father to break his promise.

"Santa's not going to come if you're up all night."

"What does it matter?" sighed Dean. What was the point when their father wasn't going to be home? Who was going to put the presents under the tree anyways? Were there any presents? Dean had given up on the idea of Santa when he learned that all the things parents told their children weren't real were in fact real. Santa certainly hadn't delivered on bringing his mom back and it looked like he wasn't going to deliver on letting John be home for Christmas either. "We're not going to have Christmas anyways."

"No more Santa?" mumbled Sam groggily, as he rubbed his eyes. Blinking the sleep out of his eyes he looked imploringly at his brother, as if Dean himself made the world turn.

Jim went over to the recliner and scooped the boy up in his arms. "Santa will be here, he just can't come when little boys are awake. That would ruin the magic," he soothed.

"Where's daddy?" asked Sam looking around. His little lip began to tremble before the tears started to fall. "I want daddy."

Dean forced a fake smile. "He's on his way, Sammy, don't worry." Dean felt like Sam looked and he wished there was no one around so he could bury his face in a pillow and cry out all his fears and frustration. Sam needed someone to tell him it was all going be okay and he was determined to make Sammy believe that until he absolutely had to tell him otherwise.

"Hey," chirped in Pastor Jim, trying to inject some joy into an otherwise gloomy situation. "I have an idea. Why don't you boys open one present each?" He looked at Sam who wiped his tears away with chubby little fists and nodded his head in agreement. Gently he put the toddler down and followed as Sam scrambled for the Christmas tree.

Sam picked up each present, examining them with a careful eye before giving them a shake. He couldn't read yet, the scribble on the name tags still a mystery but he Dean had spent an entire afternoon practicing the letter s and reviewing how only Sammy's name started with that letter. After examining everything he had forged a neat little pile of packages with the letter s on them.

"Dean, aren't you going to come and open a present?" asked Jim, noticing Dean had let to leave his self appointed post. If Murphy was being honest, he was getting a little worried too; John should have been back days ago or at least called by now. If there was no sign of the man by tomorrow, he'd give Singer a call and see if he could go take a look at the job, and find any trace of John.

"That's okay. I'll wait for dad." His voice was growing as weak as his moral. The snow was coming down so hard it was hard to even see the road anymore, not that it mattered much, vehicles had stopped passing by two hours ago. "If we ever see him again," he mumbled under his breath so Sam wouldn't hear.

Sam didn't hear, too wrapped up in the tearing of wrapping paper but Jim did. It was a knife in the gut, the prospect of having to tell those small boys they'd lost another parent. He silently prayed that he wouldn't have to. "Have a little faith Dean." It was the only reassurance he could offer.

"Look Dean!" cheered Sammy, proudly holding up a remote control truck.

"That's nice, Sammy."

Sam picked up another present this one with the letter d on it and toddled over to his brother. "Dean open." He shoved the gift at Dean.

Dean glanced at, feeling the burn of sadness gnaw at his throat. "No, Sammy, that's for dad. D-a-d spells dad not Dean." Sam looked crestfallen for a moment before making his way back to the Christmas tree. Not to be deterred he grabbed another d present and brought it over.

Dean spared a glance from his obsessive watching to see what his brother brought this time. "Good job Sammy, that one says Dean."

"Dean, open," he declared.

"Nah, you can open it for me."

Sam looked skeptical, shoving the small blue box back at Dean.

"It's okay, go ahead," insisted Dean. What he really wanted wasn't going to be found under the tree.

A small grin appeared on Sam's face as he began to tear into the blue paper. The paper didn't stand a chance, quickly revealing the pack of green army men inside. "Can we play Dean?" He eagerly held up the box.

"It's time for bed Sam, maybe tomorrow," answered Jim. Sam regretfully put the box back under the tree next to his truck and grabbed his stuffed bear off the couch. Taking Jim's waiting outstretched hand they head towards the stairs.

Dean let out a long sigh and slowly started to climb off the couch by the window. As he turned he caught a small flicker of movement through the snow. He turned to back to get a better look but only saw the vastness of white nothing. He rubbed his eyes, and tried again, not surprise when the only thing he found was disappointment. He caught another glimpse of something. Straining his eyes he tried to see through the snow. "Wait," he called.

Jim and Sam paused on the third step, turning to look at Dean.

"I think I see something," he whispered, too afraid to call too much attention in case it disappeared again.

"Is it Santa?" yelled Sam, scrambling to join his brother on the couch. He pressed his face tightly to the glass searching for the man in red out in the mess of white.

Slowly the blob of movement began to take shape. Dean's heart sped up as he recognized it as a person.

Jim had joined them at the window, staring in wonder with the boys. "Who would be out in a storm like this?"

"Santa?" chimed in Sam.

"Better, I think it's dad."

They watched intently as the figure came closer. As it reached the edge of the long driveway, Dean ran to the kitchen and threw open the side door. He stepped out on the step waiting. An eternity passed, and he began to wonder if he'd been wrong, if it was someone else wandering alone in the night and the stranger hadn't turned down the driveway. He shivered in the cold, about to give up when someone came around the corner of the house. "Dad?"

John looked up at his name whispered on the wind. He was frozen and covered in freshly fallen snow, capable of nothing more than putting one foot in front of the other. His singular focus had driven him the three hour walk to Jim's door. All the pain and numbness disappeared as he looked up and saw Dean standing out on the step. He was tired and he was done, but that sight gave him wings to fly the last couple of feet. "Dean."

"Dad!" cried Dean as he ran out in his sock covered feet to meet his dad.

John almost fell over with the force of Dean catapulting himself at him, but he managed to wrap the boy up in a tight hug anyways.

Sam came running out of the house. "Daddy's back." John scooped him up too, carrying both back into the warmth of the house.

"Good to see you John, glad you made it," greeted Jim, stepping out of the way.

John placed both boys on the kitchen table, give them one last squeeze to hide the grimace of pain that pulled at his face as his wound pinched and pulled uncomfortably from holding his precious charges. "I'm so glad to see you boys."

"You came back dad," said Dean, drinking in the sight of his father home, safe and sound. He was a little worse for wear, dried blood on the side of his face and holding himself a little rigid, but he was home.

"I promised, didn't I?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you know what else, I ran into this other guy outside and he asked me to give you these." John reached into his coat and pulled out a pound puppy, slightly wet. Sam lit up like a Christmas tree, his hands eagerly reaching out for the stuffed animal.

"From Santa?"

"From Santa," agreed John. Sam snatched the toy, giving it a deathly tight hug. He reached in his other pocket and pulled out the GI Joe figure.

"Thanks dad, but Santa already gave my present." Dean wrapped his arms around his father and refused to let go until John had both kids tucked into bed. It was the best Christmas either of them had had in a long time.


	4. Perfect Landing, Son

Disclaimer: The Supernatural characters are not mine, just borrowed for this story.  
Feedback is always welcome, adored and appreciated

 **Perfect Landing, Son**

Dean can hardly hear the roar of the engine beneath the pounding of his heart as the Impala eats up the dark pavement. His chest is heaving in a desperate effort to suck in enough oxygen as panic and fear threaten to take over. He grips the steering wheel tighter in a desperate attempt to ward off the tremble that's causing him to weave over the line.

There's nothing but darkness beyond the head lights making the claustrophobic strangle of isolation tighten around him. It hadn't seemed this far going out to the abandoned farm. Time is slipping away and Dean presses down harder on the accelerator, a task made all the more difficult by the fact that his legs just aren't long enough yet to put his foot to the floor and see over the dash.

His stomach drops as the road ahead forks. He can't afford to take a wrong turn, his dad is counting on him. "Which way, dad?"

There's nothing but silence coming from the passenger side.

Dean's voice is shaky and hesitant, "Dad?"

Silence.

Dean bites his lip, steeling himself to pry his eyes from the road and spare a glance at his father slumped in the passenger seat. John's deathly still and in the darkness Dean can't make out if his chest is rising or not. "Dad, I need to know which way back to town," he pleads.

* * *

The gravel pops and crunches under the tires as the dusty Chevy pulls into the driveway. The fine dust of crushed rock kicks up and floats through the open windows making the thick warm air even drier. The car rolls to a gentle stop with a slight squeak reminding John he'll have to take a day and change out the brake pads.

"Pastor Jim's again?" whines Dean in a tone that sounds almost like an accusation accompanied with a dramatic eye roll.

"Yeah, Dean," snaps John. "Get your stuff." He's not sure when his nine year old developed the attitude. Hopefully it's just a side effect from being trapped in the car for the better part of three days during a heat wave that makes hell on earth seem like a possibility. It's made John himself cranky and irritable as well. The only one in remotely high spirits is Sammy who is thankfully still in his happy-go-lucky phase. God help John when he has two teenagers on his hands.

John pulls the keys from the ignition and holds them up. Dean reaches over the back seat to grab them, slamming the door as he storms to the trunk to grab his and Sammy's bags.

It's loud enough that Sam stirs in the backseat, looking around blurry-eyed. He perks up a little when he sees Jim step out the front door. "We here?" he asks with a yawn and sleep mussed hair as he climbs over the seat to flop down next to John in the front.

The whole car rocks as Dean slams the trunk shut too. John glares at his oldest through the rear-view mirror.

"Let's go, kiddo," he says softly to Sam, climbing out the driver's side door with Sammy clambering after him.

Sam takes his hand, traipsing happily alongside John while Dean trails behind, dragging his feet and kicking stones along the way.

"Pastor Jim!" squeals Sam with excitement, releasing his grip on his father to run up the steps and crash into Jim's waiting wide spread arms.

"Jim," greets John. "Thanks for taking the boys." It's a last minute arrangement. He had planned to spend the rest of the month in Montana to let Dean finish out the rest of the third grade but he caught a whiff of a case that couldn't be ignored and pulled the pin early on their domestic vacation.

"Not a problem," assures Jim, releasing Sam so he can run into the house and plop himself in front of the TV to watch cartoons. "They're a pleasure," adds Jim, ruffling Dean's hair when he finally makes it to the door.

John lets out a sigh as Dean shakes off Jim's hand to push past him and throw his and Sam's bags on the floor next to the couch. Clearly Dean's willing to share his misery with the world and not just John.

"It should only be a couple of days," assures John. It's hard enough finding people he trusts to look after the boys, he doesn't need Dean being overly difficult for them. The boys are fine by themselves at a motel for a day or a night but any longer, John feels better leaving them with someone. This current new disposition of Dean's isn't exactly filling him with confidence of leaving Dean in charge for days at a time.

"You kids behave," calls John. Sam's already too enthralled with the TV to hear.

Dean on the other hand is too invested in sulking to not hear. "Why can't we go with you?" he demands.

John pinches the bridge of his nose and counts back silently from five. "We've been over this, Dean. Your job is to stay with Sammy." It's been a broken record for the last couple of months every time John takes a case. He'd expect it from Sammy but Dean know what John's doing.

"Sammy can stay here. I can help," protests Dean. "Let me go with you. You shouldn't go alone. I could watch your back."

"Enough, Dean!" snaps John with enough bite even Sammy looks away from cartoon wonderland. Dean's jaw audibly clicks shut and John should feel bad but he can't fight a war with dissention in the ranks. "Stay here and do what you're told."

"John," interrupts Jim, breaking the tension. "Caleb left that package for you in the shed. We should get it before you leave."

John stares down Dean for another second before nodding. He's just so tired of fighting with Dean lately. And it's not even like the kid is intentionally being a tool, Dean honestly thinks he's helping but good intentions aren't going to keep them safe. He needs Dean to be more worried about Sam than him so John can focus on the job and not worry about the boys.

They get to the corner of the house when Dean comes running down the path and John steels himself for round ninety-five. "What Dean?" snaps John before his son can get a word out. He needs to cut this rebellion down before it takes shape.

Dean visibly deflates, standing there like a kicked puppy. "I forgot something in the trunk," says Dean in a broken whisper that makes John feel like an especially horrible human being.

John makes a mental note to make it up to the kid as he silently hands over the car keys. It's another promise he knows deep down he won't be able to keep.

Dean grabs them without a word and walks back to the front of the house with his shoulders slumped.

John heads back to the car, box in hand, but Dean's nowhere to be seen. He should go back in the house and apologise before leaving but he's losing daylight and despite feeling like an ass, he has to hold the line on not letting Dean be a moody, disobedient preteen. Their lives may actually depend on it one day. The keys are sitting on the driver's seat so he can't even fake an excuse to go in that doesn't feel like concession.

He gets in the car and drives.

* * *

The ground comes up fast and hard as John's knee buckles under him. He can't help the groan of pain that slips from him and echoes through the still night. There isn't a soul for miles, just the rotting wood of a farmhouse and John's corpse if he can't summon the strength to get back to his feet. Getting to his feet couldn't be any worse than the pain when he pulled the old wrought iron rod from his gut.

One step at a time; he just had to get to the car. John looks down at his hand, dismayed that his hastily balled up jacket is already soaked through. He braces himself and tries to apply more pressure. Black spots dance at the edge of his vision and the muscles in his arm start to shake with the effort.

The ground is painfully uneven making every step its own obstacle as he fights to stay upright. The world is starting to wobble and he can feel a coldness settling in that signals he's running out of time to help himself.

There's a moment of relief when the Impala finally comes into view. A couple dozen more steps and he'll be able to drive out of here, back to his boys. With a great effort he heaves himself against the car, the Impala supporting most of his weight as he fumbles and fishes for the keys with the hand not trying to keep his insides where they belong. It takes far longer than it should to get the key into the door and crawl in.

John lays there across the front seat, legs still slumped outside, panting. Just getting in the car has cost him most of his waning strength; he can't imagine how he's going actually drive himself out of here. Town is a twenty minute drive away and at least fifteen minutes of that is on lonely back roads. It would just be easier to lay there and die and based on what John's fuzzy brain can piece together, will probably be the outcome even if he can get himself settled properly behind the wheel.

He really should have apologised to Dean before he left.

"Dad?"

Apparently the blood loss has entered the hallucination stage because he swears he hears Dean voice.

Little hands appear over the seat followed by a mop of dirty blond hair. John stares at the concerned face fighting back the sheer panic that's wobbling its little lip. If the last thing he's going to see is an image of Dean, he wishes the kid didn't have to look so sad.

"Dad, are you alright? What can I do?"

It suddenly occurs to John that it's not a hallucination staring back at him but actually Dean. "Dean, what are you doing here?" asks John, confusion written all over his face. "You're not supposed to be here." This, This was exactly why Dean should be tucked safely away in Pastor Jim's guest room, not here in the middle of nowhere while John bleeds out in the front seat with a ghoul lurking the property.

"I just wanted to help. I'm sorry," says Dean sounding every inch the small boy he is. "I can go get help. Maybe the phone in the house still works," continues Dean in a rush as he opens the back door to get out.

"No!" cries John, grabbing Dean's wrist before letting out an anguished groan. He only injured the ghoul and there could be others. He doesn't want his kid walking into that mess, least of all to save John's ass because he wasn't as focused as he should have been.

Panic floods John's veins so entirely, like the night of the fire. He has to get Dean out of here. Grabbing the steering wheel with one hand he pulls himself up. The world tips violently as his gut screams ferociously to stop. He sees stars and then nothing.

Dean climbs over the seat, careful to not land on top of his father. "Dad! Please wake up," he cries. He doesn't know what to do in this situation. Dad taught him how to fire a gun, how to protect Sammy if something gets in, but what to do in a situation like this other than get Sammy and get help. Sammy isn't here and there's no help in sight.

John wakes to a constant patting against his face. The relief on Dean when John opens his eyes, almost makes John want to cry.

Dean sits back on his knees, solemn and steadfast despite the fear coursing through his small body. "What do I do, dad?"

There are few options and most of them bad. They have to get out of here but how long is John going to stay conscious behind the wheel if he can't even manage to do it just sitting up? He's not going to kill his son in a car crash. John looks at Dean sitting there, and despite the gnawing felling in his gut that has nothing to do with the hole the ghoul helped create, nods and says, "Okay." Heaven help them.

John pulls his legs in as best he can, inching his way into the passenger seat so he's propped up against the door. He can taste blood in his mouth from biting down on his lip to keep from crying out. Dean's already shaken and John needs him with a cool head if this is even going to have a chance.

"Close the door, Dean," rasps John.

Dean's quick to obey, turning like an obedient dog for his next order.

John points to the keys on the dash. "Grab those and put them in the ignition," he instructs. "And put your seatbelt on."

Dean moves to grab the keys but hesitates, looking uncertainly at John when it dawns on him the implication.

"You can do this, Dean," assures John. It's a lot of pressure to put on such little shoulders but the kid's rose to the challenge before, he can do it now.

Nodding, Dean swallows hard and grabs they keys. Sure he used to play behind the wheel, imagining what it would be like to cruise down the highway one day but never with the engine on; at least not without sitting in dad's lap with his hands firmly on the wheel beside Dean's as they drive down the last street before home on a grocery run with mom smiling in the passenger seat.

The key slides in smoothly, turning forward like it was destiny. The familiar rumble of life pours from the engine and a tingle of excitement shudders through Dean.

A small half smile curves John's lips. "That's good, Dean." This isn't how he pictured this moment. This moment should come seven years from now when Dean comes home with a learner's permit and pesters him and Mary into taking him out. Both proud and slightly terrified, John would volunteer to jump on that landmine, waving from the passenger seat to Mary and Sam as they back out of the driveway for the first time trying to avoid backing over the Edger's garbage cans. They'd circle the block a couple times before hitting the highway, white knuckling it the whole way. It would become a weekend ritual until finally Dean pulls in safely from passing his driver's test and as he shuts off the engine and hands the key's back to John who refuses them, telling his grown little boy, "She's all yours now, son."

That dream is from another life, one not covered in smoke and ash and memories of Mary pinned to a ceiling. This life has a terrified nine year old trying to remain calm after John just put him in charge of three thousand pounds of steel.

"Put your foot on the brake," continues John.

Dean looks down at the pedals, his foot stretching out. He squirms forward an inch but it's not good, he still comes up short. "I can't reach," he confesses and that feeling of failure and doom starts to coat his skin and clog his senses.

John would laugh if the situation wasn't so desperate. "Hold on," he says and braces himself for what is about to unleash hell on his insides. His good hand pokes around the side of the seat, finally finding the lever to slide it forward.

"Okay," shouts Dean over Johns pained whimpers as the seat moves as far forward as it can get. He can touch the pedal now but has to strain to get is down close to the floor. "Are you okay?" he asks, hands hovering over his father, afraid to touch but desperate to help.

"Yep," manages John through clenched teeth. "Keep your hands on the wheel."

Dean snaps forward, eyes glued ahead.

"Put it in drive and take your foot slowly off the brake."

It's hardly a smooth motion; everything awkward and cumbersome and unnatural. Dean holds his breath as he lifts his foot and the car slowly starts to roll forward. He feels a split second of terror and lack of control before his brain realizes the car is barely moving, just creeping forward like a turtle. Part of him wants to keep things at this pace, the car inching forward of its own volition but that's not going to help his dad bleeding beside him.

"Okay now _, gently_ put your foot on the gas." John watches. Dean's tense and holding his breath but so is John.

Dean experimentally wiggles his toes, applying for pressure to the gas pedal. The car picks up speed moving at a brisk waking pace. To Dean, it feels like a million mile an hour. He lifts his foot back up and the car slows back to its turtle crawl. He grips the steering wheel tighter and tries again.

"A little harder," prompts John raising his hand to hover just beside the wheel in case he needs to grab it should Dean not turn it hard enough for the corner coming up. "Start to turn." John can feel the car begin to shift direction in an awkward jerky motion but they make it around the bend.

Dean's eyes are fixed to the dark road ahead like if he moves them the car will crash in a ball of fire like in the movies he watches during late nights at the motels when John's on a hunt. They're only doing ten miles an hour but it's not worth the risk in Dean's opinion.

Time's a critical factor but there's enough pressure on Dean already. John hopes to be with his son for the whole trip but he can already feel his grip starting to slip. He just needs to know Dean can do this, that he can at least get himself to safety if John doesn't make it. "The faster you go the faster and more easily the car responds."

Dean presses his foot down harder. It's exhilarating and terrify in turn. The road is pretty straight, which is a relief but it's dark and ominous and what was a relatively short trip from Pastor Jim's is starting to feel like a life time and they've barely started.

With every passing minute of non fiery death, Dean's confidence grows. He by no means the driver his father is but perhaps he can get them to town in one piece.

John presses his hand tighter against his side. It's a futile effort that's doing little to stem the flow of warm wetness drenching his shirt and pooling on the seat beneath him. He grits his teeth against a wave of pain and nausea that washes over him, his sweat drenched head lulling against the cool glass of the Impala's passenger side window. He's flirting dangerously with unconsciousness now.

"Take a left up here," he slurs, tongue heavy and thick in his mouth.

The car swings widely around the corner, crossing the center and making the occupants lurch. "Sorry," apologises Dean for the rough turn. An eerie silence fills the passenger side of the car.

Dean wants to stop, pull over and make sure John is alright. There's a thrown together first aid kit rolling around in the trunk next to a tool kit and box of bullets and hand guns John thinks Dean doesn't know about. He should have grabbed it before they left the farm and tried to do something to stop the bleeding though Dean doesn't know what. Most of his medical knowledge relates to Band-Aids for Sammy and the odd procedure directed by his father. Nothing this severe though. The speedometer creeps up as the Impala cuts through the night.

His stomach drops as the road ahead forks. He can't afford to take a wrong turn, his dad is counting on him. "Which way, dad?"

There's nothing but silence coming from the passenger side.

Dean's voice is shaky and hesitant, "Dad?"

Silence.

Dean bites his lip, steeling himself to pry his eyes from the road and spare a glance at his father slumped in the passenger seat. John's deathly still and in the darkness Dean can't make out if his chest is rising or not. "Dad, I need to know which way back to town," he pleads. He's never felt alone like this before.

He wracks his brain trying to remember the way but it's vastly different from behind the wheel than it was crouch down on the floor under a blanket in the back. Something in Dean screams, 'turn right' and he prays he's made the right decision as the car hurtles in the new direction.

Dean swears he's been driving all night, stuck in some sort of limbo where help is just over the next hill but all there ever is is darkness. Finally the first signs of civilization start to appear; a mile post here, a street light there. Thank goodness it's night in this sleepy little hamlet and Dean doesn't have to worry about traffic and people because he successfully blows every sing stop sign and red light in his way.

The hospital isn't hard to find; the tallest building in town and the only one in three blocks with any lights on. The Impala comes to an abrupt stop sending the occupants forward. Fortunately the seat is so far forward neither has far to go before pressing up against the dash.

Dean's hand is on his seat belt before he remembers to put the vehicle in park; the slow rolling motion reminding him the jobs not finished yet. He turns the engine off and climbs out of the car, ignoring the voice inside telling him to check on his father. He's terrified to reach over and find it's all been for nothing; that dad's dead and he and Sammy are truly alone in this world. Instead he runs to the emergency room door, like a hell hound is on his tail, screaming for help.

He doesn't remember what story he gives the doctors or much of his tearful phone call to Pastor Jim other than he's in trouble for disappearing and scaring Jim half to death but Jim's on his way with Sammy. He sits there on the hard plastic chairs in emergency and waits for any news.

* * *

John forges a signature on his hospital release papers. He's checking out AMA but he can't afford the attention being there is bringing his small family. It's safer for all of them to blow town for awhile and hole up some place remote and quiet.

Sammy's his usual bubbly self, having gotten over his worry for John the second one of the nurses took him to the cafeteria for chocolate pudding. Dean on the other hand has been more quiet than usual, playing the part of furniture all too well. The kid's seen far too much in his few years, been asked too much and John doesn't know how to begin to make it right for him. He can't walk away from this, not if he wants to keep the boys safe but he isn't blind to the toll it's taking on them.

Sam waves bye-bye to the hospital as they pull out of the parking lot and silence rains in the backseat as they put town in the rear view mirror.

It's about two hundred miles into their journey before Dean pipes up in the back. "I'm sorry I disobeyed and didn't stay at Pastor Jim's," mumbles Dean. There's an argument bubbling beneath his tongue but he swallows it down.

"You should have listened. When I give and order, I expect you to follow it, Dean," replies John, all gruff and grouchy like he's addressing an insubordinate private. The point stands, Dean disobeyed and it could have made him ghoul chow. Dean sighs and stares dejectedly out the window. John's not talking to a disobedient private, he's dealing with a scared nine year old that saved his life. "You did good though. Got us there in piece. Can't ask for a better first time driving than that."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, buddy."

Dean practically lights up the back seat as he smiles.

John decides to give Dean a real driving lesson after they get settled. "Perfect landing, son," he mumbles to himself.


End file.
